


in my mouth, on my tongue, on my lips

by ToAStranger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Voiles Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6108901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The forest screams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in my mouth, on my tongue, on my lips

O my God, what am I  
That these late mouths should cry open  
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

—           Sylvia Plath | _Poppies In October_

* * *

 

The forest is unforgiving—as it is always unforgiving to something as unnatural as man—and snatches and snares at the boy’s dark cloak when he runs.  It snarls as he makes his way through the brush, tripping and scrambling past root, over stone.  It tries, desperately, to catch him.  Before the sun rises.  Before the day begins. 

Only darkness gives life to its cold cruelty.  The winters that have settled these branches, the ice fires that have gnawed at these roots, is the only weapon it can wield against these hapless, helpless men bent on their own destruction.  They do not dare stray into the trees on those long nights.  They do not stray.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

The boy stumbles over bones.  He does not see them.  He does not stop.  Above him, through the thick canopy of branches spread like arms, like gnarled fingers to blot out the light, the sky grows pale.  The sun rises.  The forest screams.

Falling through the brambles, the boy cries out.  He prepares for the sheer cliff side that should be there.  For the _nothing_ that he cannot see.

He lands in a field of green.

It is spackled with red blossoms.  As he pushes up from his stomach, dirt and blood on his cheek and on his hands, he takes in the vast clearing lit in a warm gold haze.  There is frost clinging to the grass, to the bloody petals that seems to reach out for him where he wavers on his hands and knees.  Gasping in each breath, the boy fills the space between his mouth and the earth with the desperation that had condensed in his lungs, rasping and stuttering so much that the ground begins to breathe up steam in reply.  His clumsy fingers clutch at the grass, and he leans down to rest his forehead against the dirt as he sobs in relief.

Across the field, a twig snaps.  This boy, this child, ripples rigid.  His head stays bowed, his body in supplication.  The ground groans; it rumbles and shifts and makes way for the girth of a power so old and vast that the earth nearly cracks open in revealing it.  The boy trembles.

“You bleed for me.”

“I—I offer myself—“ the boy falters, voice cracking.  “I offer myself to you, spirit of the wood, O’Lord.  Have mercy and I shall be your faithful servant.”

“I have had my fill of servants,” fingers curl under the boy’s chin and tip his head up.  “I do not want any more.”

The boy stares at his own face as it is reflected down at him, a halo of dark hair on his head, eyes burning dark, skin glowing.  “I—I offer myself to you, to the spirit of the wood.  I offer all that I am.”

“The spirit of the wood,” it mutters, lips pursing.  “Certainly a spirit.  How did you find me, boy?”

Behind them, around them, the forest groans in protest.  The spirit frowns, tilting its head, perhaps to listen.  The wind shifts, cutting through the clearing and whipping about them.  The poppies thrash.  The tree, thick and imposing at the center of the field, moans her reply.

The spirit snarls.  He tears away from the boy and there is a roar of sound.  Eyes closed, the boy presses his forehead back to the earth, quivering.  There is nothing but noise and wind.  The boy’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth; he is rank with fear.

The world settles.  It goes quiet.  The sun streaks down and warms his back.  In the distance, there is bird song.  The spirit kneels before him, fingers ghosting over the boy’s bare scalp, skirting over his cropped hair and raw skin where a blade sheared too close.

“We won’t be interrupted again,” it tells him.  “What happened to your hair?”

“I—I was marked, my Lord.”

“Marked?”

“For practicing witchcraft.”

The spirit breathes in, long and deep.  “You smell of magic, but nothing of witchery.  Is that how you found me?”

“No,” he shudders and his face is tipped up again so that the spirit may look upon him.  “My mother’s mother.  She had a book.”

“A book?”

The boy wet his lips and nods, skin prickling where the spirit curves a hand over his bleeding cheek.  “Yes, my Lord.”

“And what did this book say, my bloodied darling?” it brings its fingers to its mouth, the boy’s mouth in twisted reflection, and stains it red as he tastes them.

“To seek out the spirit of the wood if I ever needed help,” the boy’s eyes are drawn to those red lips.  “To offer myself to you if I survived the journey on a moonless night, and to throw my body at your feet so that you may show me mercy.  To give myself over to my new Lord so completely that you may show me or bid me favor.”

The spirit’s smile is not a kind one.  “And whatever do you need my favor for?”

“My mother,” the boy’s lips tremble.  “She’s ill.”

“And your medicines cannot heal her?”

“It is a malady of the mind,” his voice cracks, his eyes well.  “The only cure is death.  If not for my father’s standing, she would already be burned.”

“And you?”

The boy’s mouth thins into a grimace.  “I was to be burned last night, my Lord.”

“And your father?”

“I am a man in my village’s eyes.  He cannot speak for me any longer.  He tried and he failed.”

“Did he help you escape?” the spirit casts a pointed look to the rope burn at the boy’s wrists and the cloak that is too big.

“Yes, my Lord.”

The spirit hums, taking the boy by the chin again, tilting his face to look over his features.  “How old are you, boy?”

“I have walked this earth for fourteen years, my Lord.”

“So young,” it breathes and leans in, tongue scalding against his cheek as he licks the blood there away, healing the gash.  “So _pretty_.”

“My—My Lord?”

It purrs, reaching to the side and plucking a poppy free from the dirt.  It tucks it behind the boy’s ear.  It stands and offers a hand.  The boy hesitates, then reaches up with dirty, blooded fingers, taking the hand gingerly in his own.

On his knees, the boy shuffles close.  He presses his lips to the spirit’s knuckles, shaking like a leaf in the growing cold of winter.  The spirit smiles, slow and lazy and satisfied.  It coaxes the boy to his feet.

“You risk yourself to the woods and come to me offering your life for the safety of your loved ones?” it asks.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“And if I tell you I am not the spirt of the wood but that I can give you what you ask, would you still offer yourself?” It peers at him with a careful, calculated eye.

The boy falters, hands twitching tight around its fingers as they regard one another.  He wavers a moment and only a moment.  Then he brings the spirit’s hand back up to his mouth, lips sweet against the back of its hand.

“I am yours, my Lord.” He whispers.  “To you, I give my everything.”

The spirit rises tall, eyes flaring silver.  “And I shall have everything.”

It draws the boy close.  Wrapping him up in arms, it leans in and seals its vow with a kiss as red as the flowers in the field.  The forest quakes.  The tree at the center shivers, twists, and groans.  The ground seems to rumble and writhe. 

Their lips slant.  The boy, pure in all ways but the magic that sparks in his chest, whimpers as the spirit draws him fast.  It feeds upon the heat of the boy’s mouth, teeth dangerous, tongue hungry.  It tastes a sweetness there and groans before parting.

“Red and blossomed and ready to be plucked,” the spirit trails its fingertips over the boy’s lips, across his cheek, to the flower behind his ear.  “Do you give yourself to me?”

Panting and flush, hair regrown and messy, scrapes gone and bruises faded, the boy nods.  “I give myself to you, my Lord.”

“I do so _love_ when you call me lord, my darling.” It grins, a ravenous beast about to feast.  “Close your eyes, child.”

The boy’s eyes flutter shut.  His lashes are thick and long on pink cheeks.  His lips full and parted.  His skin pale, supple, soft.  An offering for the Gods.

The spirit pets his cheek with the back of its clawed fingers.  It smiles, mouth black, teeth sharp and dips his head to kiss him again.

“All of them, Stiles.” It whispers, a ghost of breath on the boy’s lips, the field quivering under the shadow cast above.  “We shall destroy all of them.”

The boy’s lips part under his.  And when they do, the spirit breathes its darkness into him, black like liquid, viscous as it eases from the spirit’s mouth to the boy’s, dribbling like thick ink, like oil down his throat, across his tongue, over his lips until it leaks, it leaks, it leaks down his chin and onto the grass at their feet.

As it stains the earth, it stains the boy, and the clouds roll in, thunderous overhead.  The forest screams.


End file.
